


Dream I Turned Out Well

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Child Abuse, Childhood Friends, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Original Character(s), Smut, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 19:38:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3085952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was sad that Ian could recall his worst memories better than his best ones. Homemade phones and baseball fields and Bat Caves and invisibility shadowed by bruises and tears and fear and lost time.</p><p>Childhood Friends AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Childhood

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Shameless Secret Santa gift for Billie (mmilkvch.tumblr.com). I saw one of the AU ideas you liked was "childhood friends with adjoining houses/rooms AU" so I kind of went with that and ended up with this angsty beast. I hope you like it!

It was sad that Ian could recall his worst memories better than his best ones.

 

Growing up, Ian had been lucky. Maybe not lucky in a normal person way, because he was poor and had less than stellar parents and lived in Canaryville. But he was lucky in a south side way. He had amazing siblings whom he loved more than he could say, a roof over his head, food on the table fairly consistently, and the best friend in the world.

Ian and Mickey had lived next door to each other their whole lives. On the hottest day of the summer when Ian was four and Mickey was five, Ian had been in the Gallagher backyard in a kiddie pool, Fiona lounging in a plastic chair reading a book while Mickey sat on the back steps of the Milkovich house looking over at Ian enviously.

“Come on!” Ian had called out to him. Mickey joined him in the lukewarm water and the rest was history.

 

* * *

 

 Mickey and Ian’s bedroom windows were directly across from each other, so close that they could probably touch fingertips if they leaned out far enough. Early on in their friendship they’d come up with the brilliant idea to make a phone out of a string and two plastic cups. They had excitedly put the device together and each hurriedly ran up to their respective bedrooms. Mickey tossed one of the cups across to Ian, holding onto the other one himself, and they shut the windows on the string. It was perfect.

The cup phone admittedly worked much better when the windows were open (because then the cups truly served no purpose but don’t you dare tell them that) but they still loved the muffled messages and stifled goodnights that the cups let them have.

 

* * *

 

 “Donny, Donny!” Ian had said one morning. “Raphael coming in. Do you copy?”

Ian soon saw Mickey’s face pop into view. “Roger that Raph. Donatello here, read you loud and clear.”

They giggled at their awesome new Ninja Turtle code names. It was one of their favorite things to do: coming up with new secret names to relay through the string. Last week it had been Red Ranger and Black Ranger.

It was rare that Ian would not be met with a response; if Mickey was home, which he usually was, he was almost always in his bedroom, drawing or playing with his wrestler action figures or just sitting quietly waiting for Ian’s call.

“Just got in word of a super-secret mission. Meet at the Bat Cave in ten.”

Ian saw Mickey nod, but Mickey quickly remembered that the cup phone was way cooler than nodding. “Roger that, Raphael. Ten-four. See you in T minues ten. Donatello over and out.”

Ian watched as Mickey stood up from where he had been kneeling on the floor, a huge grin on his face. Mickey ran out of his bedroom and Ian did the same, rushing down the stairs and shouting to Fiona that he’d be home in a few hours.

“Goin’ with the Milkovich kid again?”

“His name’s Mickey!” Ian shouted back to her before sprinting out the door. Mickey was waiting for him on the sidewalk.

“C’mon, slowpoke! The Bat Cave won’t wait forever!” Ian laughed and he and Mickey chased each other to their favorite hideout.

The Bat Cave, as it turned out, was a dugout at the baseball fields nearby. There was never anyone there, so Mickey and Ian felt like it was really theirs. They would spend hours there just talking and playing, often losing track of time until they realized the sun had almost gone down. Nearly every day of their summers were spent that way.

Some days, though, Ian would call Mickey and Mickey would tell him he had a mission he was working on at home, his grim face visible through the window. Ian was never sure why Mickey couldn’t go out on those days, never pushed him to say, but today Ian needed to know. It wasn’t just that his curiosity had got the better of him; it was that he had always known every single thing about Mickey and missing this piece made him feel cheated, inadequate, like he wasn’t a good best friend.  Everyone had something they were good at. Lip was smart, Fiona could persuade people to do almost anything with her words, Frank could drink twenty-four hours a day. Ian had Mickey. Ian was good at knowing Mickey. So not knowing this wasn’t acceptable.

“Hey Mickey, why couldn’t you come play yesterday?”

Mickey kicked at the dirt. “I told you, I was on a solo mission.”

Ian stared at him knowingly. “For real, Mickey.”

Mickey looked up at Ian, angry that he was ruining their fun, breaking their game, letting reality in like a thick fog that made Mickey choke. “For real, Ian, it was a mission. And it’s a secret Mickey mission that you’re not a good enough agent yet to know ‘bout.”

“I am, too!”

“Maybe when you’re seven I’ll tell you.”

“That’s no fair!”

“That’s what the captain said, no six year olds could know nothin’ ‘bout that mission. So you’ll have to wait I guess.”

Ian’s eyes welled up. “That’s stupid!”

Mickey watched as the tears crawled down Ian’s cheeks. “See? You’re crying. You’re a baby. Babies can’t know about important missions like that.”

Ian sniffled and tried to look tough but more tears came at Mickey’s hurtful words.

“I hate you, Mickey!”

“I hate you too, you big baby!”

Ian turned around and sprinted out of the dugout. He didn’t stop running, ran all the way home, slammed the door when he got inside the house, and ran upstairs to his bedroom, collapsing face down onto his bed.

 

Ian sat on his floor with the cup by his ear all evening. Mickey was stubborn, but Ian knew he couldn’t avoid Ian for too long. They never did.

Finally, he heard Mickey’s voice come through.

“Michelangelo, you there?” The name made Ian’s heart jump. When choosing their most recent code names they had both wanted to be Michelangelo and had argued about it until deciding that neither of them could have it. It was as much of an apology as he needed.

“Yeah,” Ian answered.

He heard Mickey open his window so Ian did the same. Mickey sat his cup down and looked across at his best friend.

“I can’t go play tomorrow. But if you want to the day after that, meet me at the Bat Cave and I’ll tell you about the mission.”

“I thought babies couldn’t know about it?”

“You’re not a baby; you’re my best friend.”

 

* * *

 

 Mickey told Ian sometimes his mom took too much medicine and he couldn’t leave her. Sometimes he had to stay by her all day and make sure she was still breathing. It was his job.

Mickey told Ian that sometimes his dad got mad and drank too much and wouldn’t let him leave. Ian told Mickey that Frank drank a lot too, and Mickey nodded like it was the same thing but knew that it wasn’t.

 

* * *

 

 The dugout was without a doubt their favorite place to be, homey and secluded and all theirs. In the winter they’d often bundle up and brave the cold, huddled up giggling in the corners of the structure in attempt to hide from the frigid winds. But when their noses were running like fountains and they couldn’t feel their faces and they thought their fingers and toes might fall of, they went to Monty’s.

Monty’s was a twenty-four hour diner a few blocks from the baseball fields, close enough to home that Fiona wasn’t worried when Ian stayed out late and had to trudge back in the dark through the snow. He was never alone, anyway.

The sign above the diner read Lizzie B.’s but it had been decades since anyone had called it that. The owner was now an older man named Monty, his hair pure white and his pudgy belly falling over his belt. The diner was open 24/7 and seemed like Monty was always there, working the counter, making friendly conversation with his loyal customers.

The boys would run inside, pulling off their scarves and hats and welcoming the sudden heat to their numb faces. They headed straight for a booth in a back corner, the seat picked apart and the stuffing coming out of the turquoise vinyl. Monty never made a move to repair the booth because, much like the Bat Cave, it belonged to Ian and Mickey, and if he fixed it up he’d just have to hang a _reserved_ sign on it to keep the casual patrons away.

Sometimes Mickey and Ian would sit in the booth, maybe across from each other or maybe shoulder to shoulder, and Monty would bring them hot chocolate and joke with them about something or other. Other times the boys would get to their booth and slide under the table, their knees brought up to their chins as they sat on the tile. When they went under there, they had learned, Monty couldn’t see them. No one could see them. Sometimes Monty would walk by and they’d hear him say things like ‘thought I’d be seeing Ian and Mickey today. Didn’t they come in? Guess not.’ The boys would giggle and smile and eventually emerge to chat with Monty, but they mostly just enjoyed their solace.

 

One cold day just before Christmas when Mickey was nine and Ian was eight they came crashing through the doors of Monty’s laughing and shoving each other playfully. Mickey ran straight for their table, crawling underneath it, but Ian stopped.

“Wait, I gotta pee.” He headed into the bathroom and left Mickey to stretch out comfortably on the floor. When Ian returned, Monty caught him before he had a chance to slip under their invisibility cloak.

“Ian,” Monty called, grabbing his attention just as Ian was about to duck under the table to join Mickey. “Wait a second, son.”

Ian stood up straight again and looked at the older man. “Hey, Monty.”

“Hi, kid. Listen, I just got a call from Terry Milkovich. He was looking for Mickey.”

Ian furrowed his brow. “What’d you tell him?”

“Told him the truth,” Monty said, a twinkle in his eye. “Said I took a look around and didn’t see Mickey anywhere.”

Ian bit his lip nervously, glancing at Mickey under the table, not sure if he should pull him to the surface or not.

“If you see Mickey, could you tell him he’d better get home? Terry didn’t seem like he was in the best mood.”

Ian nodded and Monty ruffled his hair, offering him a reassuring smile. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mickey’s bottom lip quiver, but it was fleeting and Mickey’s face was emotionless the next second.

As Monty was walking away, Mickey grabbed the table top and pulled himself up to sit in the booth.

“If I stay here are you gonna call my dad?”

There was a fear in Mickey’s eyes that Ian would never understand, not really. He knew Terry was an asshole. He knew Mickey’s ‘secret missions’ usually consisted of something with his parents, either his mom was gone or high and he had to take care of Mandy, or Terry wouldn’t let him leave the house because he was drunk and just wanted to be a prick, or Terry had left bruises on Mickey so Mickey had to stay away from school until they healed. It was always something like that. Ian knew that. He understood that.

But Frank never hit him. He was always drunk, usually annoying, sometimes an asshole. But he didn’t live in fear of Frank. Once in a while he was even a decent father. Once in a great while.

And when Frank was too drunk, way too drunk, and he stumbled into their house yelling that his kids were so fucking useless and unappreciative and blah blah blah, Ian had Fiona and Lip. They handled it. They made Frank leave or put the kids to bed or gathered them all together in one of the kid’s tiny bedrooms to play games and laugh loud enough to drown out Frank’s ramblings.

Ian couldn’t imagine not having them. The thought of Mickey not having a Fiona or a Lip made Ian queasy. Mickey only had Mandy, who was the same age as Ian. Mickey protected Mandy; he was the Fiona and the Lip. And he had to protect her from a lot worse than Frank.

So Ian looked at the fear on Mickey’s face and it made him hate the world. The feeling burned his stomach, made his face turn hot, brought him close to tears. He wished he could protect his best friend.

“I don’t see any need to call your father. It’s not my place. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want. You know that. Besides,” Monty said, smiling at the scared boy. “I probably won’t even notice you’re here.

Ian slid under the table just as the tears began to pour from his eyes. He hated showing weakness. Gallaghers didn’t cry, not really, not often, because they were tough as nails and could handle all the shit in their lives. But sometimes it got to be too much. Sometimes Ian heard Fiona crying in her bedroom when she thought everyone was asleep. He knew that Lip sometimes spent the whole night sitting on the roof because sleep just wouldn’t come, his bind to bogged down with worry about bills and kids and the future.

Sometimes it got to be too much. And Ian couldn’t help but cry.

 

* * *

 

 The following summer led to one of the worst days in Ian’s life. Mickey hadn’t come out the day before, and Ian could clearly see the bruises on his face and arms as they stood across from each other in their bedrooms. Their windows were wide open, the cups held in place by the taped string.

They had been talking through the cups, not really necessary with the open windows but necessary in their heads. They spent enough time not being kids; cup phones and Bat Caves were all they had to hold on to.

Mickey seemed subdued and withdrawn, only using his words to agree with Ian every now and again. And then, they both heard it. Terry Milkovich screaming for Mickey to get the fuck downstairs. Something about how Mickey had left his goddamn toys on the floor again and Terry had apparently stepped on one and was going to fucking kill him. Just another day in the Milkovich house.

“I gotta go,” Mickey said into the cup. He looked over his shoulder at the door, still hearing Terry’s drunken screams coming from the bottom of the stairs.

“Mickey, hide! Hide under the table like we do at Monty’s! He won’t see you!”

Mickey dropped the cup and looked grimly at Ian. “That won’t work, Ian,” he said to the open window, his words cutting through their childish fantasies. He didn’t have time for games. He couldn't afford it.

Mickey went downstairs and Ian laid in his bed, one tear that he couldn’t contain finding its way down his nose.

Ian wasn’t sure if he imagined it, be he swore he could hear the sound of skin smacking skin.

 

* * *

 

 It was sad that Ian could recount his worst memories better than his best ones. But his best ones were of normal days, just times when he and Mickey were in the Bat Cave or at Monty’s or in their backyards. When they were having fun, doing whatever, Ian couldn’t remember exactly, and there would just be a moment when Ian would look over at Mickey and feel a rush of happiness sweep over him. That’s what he could remember. Not the details, not what they were doing, but the feeling.

Ian’s worst memories, however, he could recall in great detail.

 

* * *

 

 Funnily enough, the best day of Ian’s life and the worst day of Ian’s life occurred back to back. Both of those days would never leave his mind. The memories would never fade, not even a little, not at all.

On the best day of his life, Ian was twelve years old and he had kissed thirteen year old Mickey Milkovich.

On the worst day of his life, he didn’t get to say goodbye.

Ian had woken up late in the morning and went immediately to the cup. “Mick? You there?” They were too old for code names now, but apparently not too old for a pretend phone made out of worn plastic.

“Mick?” he said louder. When he was met with silence, he opened his window and grabbed a pebble from the pile he had for exactly this reason. He threw it at Mickey’s window and watched it bounce off and fall to the ground far below. He threw another.

Wondering where Mickey could be, he got dressed and went over to the Milkovich house.

Mickey’s little sister Mandy answered the door.

“He isn’t here,” she told him before he had gotten a word out.

“Where is he?”

“Went somewhere with my dad. On a trip, I think.”

“A trip? He never told me he was going anywhere.” Something didn't feel right to Ian. An uneasiness settled in his stomach. But Mandy didn't seem to concerned. She merely shrugged and moved to shut the door Ian’s face but Ian stuck his foot in the way.

“Do you know when he’s coming back?”

“No,” Mandy said snottily, reminding Ian of Mickey. He moved his foot and let her slam the door.

 

* * *

 

 Ian waited three days before knocking on the Milkovich door again.

He spent those three days in bed, and Fiona had brought him soup and checked his temperature with the back of her hand and asked him if he was okay.

He told her he was.

He hated lying to Fiona.

On the third day it was Mandy who opened the door again and she reminded Ian of Mickey once more. But this time it wasn’t her attitude. It was the pained look in her eyes and the sad expression on her face. He had seen Mickey look the exact same way too many times.

Ian’s face must have given him away, because Mandy stood up straighter and the sadness left her face, a tough mask taking its place.

“He’s. Not. Here!”

Ian didn’t attempt to hide his concern. “Mandy, where is he? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know!" The little girl’s eyes welled up with tears, the worry in Ian’s voice making her break. “Dad took Mickey and Mom won’t stop crying. She said we have to move away.”

“Move away? What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why would you have to move? That doesn’t make any sense.” The panic rising in Ian’s throat made his voice quiver.

Mandy’s eyes desperately begged him to understand. She was just as scared as Ian was. Just as panicked. Maybe even more so. “I don’t know!”

Ian heard the sound of Mrs. Milkovich’s sobs coming from inside the house. “Mandy!” he heard faintly. “Where’s my goddamn needle?”

Mandy sniffled and wiped at her eyes and removed all the emotion from her face again, just like Ian had seen Mickey do a thousand times before.

“I gotta go. I wasn’t even ‘sposed to tell you.” Her voice was harsh but Ian had long since learned to read between the lines with the Milkoviches. Her words were really saying _I’m sorry, Ian_ and he knew that she was.

The next day the Milkovich house was empty. It stayed that way for years, until a new family who had no Mickey Milkovich moved in and Ian finally threw the cup phone away.

 

 


	2. Tonight

He knew he was staring. He knew it was obvious. But he couldn’t look away. He knew that face. But how, _how did he fucking know it?_ It was right there, right there like it was in a part of his brain that he couldn’t quite reach. It was buried under everything else and he was digging and digging and his fingertips were brushing the surface but he couldn’t quite-

No. Fucking. Way.

The subway came to a halt and Ian stood there in awe, jaw dropped, as he watched Mickey Milkovich walk off.

Snapping out of it, Ian pushed his way through the swarm of bodies boarding the car and slid past the door as it was closing. He found himself running in the direction he had seen Mickey go.

But just like that, Mickey was gone. There was no sign of the man in any direction. Ian laughed so he wouldn’t cry at the thought of seeing Mickey in New York City of all fucking places only to freeze up and let him disappear again.

The sighting had been so fleeting, so unbelievable that Ian wasn’t sure it had been real at all.

 

* * *

 

 After that, Ian took the subway every day.  Same line, same time, even if he had no need to. Because he did have a need, one that wouldn’t let up until it paid off. Until he found Mickey again.

 Exactly one week later, he did.

 

* * *

 

 Mickey was standing almost exactly where he was the first time Ian had seen him, one hand gripping the cold metal bar with the other hand idly in his pocket. He was staring straight ahead into nothingness, just the plain chipped gray wall. He was absolutely beautiful. A thousand times more beautiful than Ian could have ever imagined. 

Ian blinked hard and moved over to Mickey before it was too late again. He approached Mickey from behind, standing close to him for a moment before announcing his presence.

“Mickey,” Mickey turned around and Ian’s heart stopped at the look on his face. Mickey remembered. Ian had been so afraid that if he and Mickey had ever met again Mickey wouldn’t know who he was, wouldn’t recognize him or wouldn’t remember him as anything other than “that Gallagher kid, what was his name?” Ian was afraid that their friendship hadn’t been what he had built it up to be.

But he saw Mickey’s face and he knew Mickey remembered everything. 

“Hey,” he said, subtly looking Ian up and down.

“Hey.” Ian paused, waiting for Mickey to say something to acknowledge who Ian was but Mickey just kept staring. “Remember me?” Ian baited.

Mickey bit his lip. “Yeah. Gallagher, right?”

Ian laughed a little. Mickey had to be messing with him. Ian shifted his weight and smiled at Mickey despite the less than warm welcome.

“Yeah. Ian,” Ian added, as if saying _I know you remember my name, asshole_.

Mickey nodded and they stood in silence again, Ian smiling excitedly and Mickey avoiding his eyes. Finally, Ian decided there was no point in beating around the bush. This was what he had been waiting for ever since that day he was met with silence on the other end of the stupid cup phone.

“Got any plans for the rest of the day?”

Ian’s bluntness compelled Mickey to look up at him. His eyes caught Ian’s wide, cocky yet goofy grin and he couldn’t help but smile back.

Mickey looked away again and shrugged casually. “Nothin’ too important.”

 

* * *

 

 The two found themselves at a something-or-other’s Bar & Grill or some shit like that. There was apparently some big sports game on so they had a hard time getting a table, but they fought their way to the bar and kicked back a few beers while waiting. The casual conversation was limited and awkward but gradually improved with each drink.

Ian had started by attempting to make conversation about craft beers. “Have you tried this kind? How ‘bout this one? Oooh, I had this one at a friend’s house last week, so much better than I would’ve thought.” But Mickey looked at Ian like he was from fucking Mars and simply said, “beer’s beer, man.” And, well, that ended there.

Ian ordered the drinks for them to “broaden Mickey’s horizons” as he explained it and Mickey reluctantly let him. They were both thankful for the noisiness of the bar as they waited for their first drinks, both searching for something to say to ease the tension but both coming up short.

Ian was fine with the silence. He was perfectly content with studying Mickey. He tried not to make it too obvious to avoid making Mickey feel uncomfortable (or _more_ uncomfortable, rather) but Ian found it hard to contain himself. He didn’t have many pictures from his childhood; once in a while Fiona would buy one of those cheap disposable cameras for a birthday party or something and then totally forget about it so it usually took them at least a year or two to use all twenty or so pictures on it. He knew there was a shoe box lying around somewhere in the Gallagher house with every picture they had ever taken in it, with plenty of empty space inside. Most of the pictures were of the younger kids anyways; Debbie’s fifth birthday and Carl’s first day of kindergarten and Liam the day after he was born. Ian couldn’t remember any of himself, and he certainly knew no pictures of himself and Mickey Milkovich existed.

Ian had last seen Mickey when he was twelve years old, and although the memories were fresh in his mind he felt like he might be forgetting what Mickey had looked like. Over time Mickey’s face had begun to blur in his mind and had almost reached the point where he was faceless in Ian’s memories. It scared Ian, realizing that a major part of his life was fading away.

He was also afraid that if he did ever see Mickey again he wouldn’t recognize him. He couldn’t even remember what thirteen year old Mickey looked like; how would he recognize a twenty-five year old Mickey? But when Ian had seen him on the subway there was no doubt in his mind. It wasn’t so much his eyes recognizing Mickey as something inside, a gut feeling, a warmness that filled his stomach and butterflies that soon followed. He just knew.

So now, after over ten years of not seeing Mickey, of forgetting his best friend’s face, Ian could spend all the time in the world staring at it, analyzing it, appreciating it. His dark hair was shorter than he remembered and less messy, his hands had tattoos that hadn’t been there before, and Ian found a new appreciation for Mickey’s body. But his eyes were the same piercing blue, filled with emotion that his lips wouldn’t say. Those eyes were the same as when they were kids, and although Ian was thrilled by older Mickey, he was happy to find solace in the familiar eyes.

They finished their first beers rather quickly and Ian suggested they do shots next. Mickey rolled his eyes and called Ian a girl but took the shot without protest. Ian ordered two new fancy beers and as they waited for them he noticed Mickey’s body relax. The tension seemed to leave his shoulders and he let his body slump against the bar. Ian smiled at the sight and glanced from Mickey to the TV and back again as they waited in a more comfortable silence for their drinks.

The conversation turned back to beers as they chugged their second glasses and Mickey admitted that this “faggy ass beer” was actually really good.

They were on their third beers when a table finally opened up for them. Conversation was still sparse but Ian had high hopes that it would improve once they were away from the crowd of hockey fans at the bar screaming at the TV screens.

“Hi! I’m Zane, I’ll be your server tonight. You guys ready to order?”

“Yeah, I’ll have another one of these, uh-“ he looked to Ian. “What was it called? Mambo Number Five?”

The waiter laughed, showing way too many teeth in his phony grin. “Close enough. And you?”

“He’ll have one, too.”

Ian shook his head. “No way, man. I’m probably way over my limit for the night already. I’ll just take a water, please. And the boneless Crazy Hot wings.”

“Burger for me. You sure those wings aren’t gonna be too hot for you, pussy?”

Annoying Zane laughed again like he was in on their conversation and grabbed their menus. “I’ll be right back with those drinks, guys. Enjoy the game!” Because that’s what they were there for. Hockey. Ian considered how insane it was that to all these people who couldn’t give two shits about them, he and Mickey were just a couple buds hanging out, watching the game together, no big deal. When in reality Ian’s mind was exploding because he had been waiting a lifetime for this. And they had no idea.

Those were the thought racing through his mind when he felt Mickey kick him under the table. Ian mentally shook himself out of his trance and looked up at him.

“Seriously, Gallagher? Water? Thought we were havin’ fun tonight?”

“You trying to get shitfaced? Those beers are like, twelve percent alcohol.”

“Hey, I can handle my alcohol, okay?”

“Alright, well, I can’t. I promise I’m much drunker than you right now so don’t worry.”

“Whatever, man.” Mickey took another sip, making his current drink last until Annoying Zane brought his next one. Silence blanketed the two once more before Ian decided _fuck it all, why not?_

“So…”

Mickey raised his eyebrows in confusion. “So….?”

“So are we going to spend the whole night dancing around the million and one elephants in the room?”

Mickey sat his glass down but picked it up again, nervously making use of his hands. “Ain’t no elephants.”

“Mickey-“

“What?”

Ian hadn’t really been expecting a ‘what?’ He had been expecting an avoidance of the subject or a ‘fuck off’ or something else. He didn’t have a response planned for a ‘what?’

He thought about asking Mickey what the fuck had happened twelve years ago; ask him where he’d gone and why and what had happened since then. But it didn’t take a genius to see that in the past twelve years Mickey had built up walls. Mickey look tired; not the didn’t-get-much-sleep-last-night kind of tired but the my-life-has-been-hard-and-I’m-fucking-exhausted kind of tired. He was colder than Ian remembered. He didn’t laugh as much, didn’t smile as much. He hadn’t necessarily been an emotional child, but it was clear that as Mickey grew up he had hardened. He closed himself off completely. And Ian had missed it. Ian had missed so much of Mickey’s life and it wasn’t going to be as easy as just asking about it to get it all back.

So Ian decided to let Mickey loosen up, let him get more comfortable. Instead of replying to his ‘what?’ with all the questions that they were racing through his mind, he went with a mood-lightener instead.

“I think we need to address the elephant. Mickey, you’ve changed a lot but” he leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “I don’t think you’ve grown an inch since you were twelve years old.”

Mickey leaned back and, to Ian’s relief, laughed. “Fuck you, man. Like you’re not as alien-lookin’ as ever. Thought maybe your hair would darken over time. Guess you’re not that lucky.”

They both laughed as they poked fun at each other and the rest of the dinner went off without a hitch, filled with casual conversation that did nothing to hint at the period of time that Ian had come to call The Lost Years.

Ian watched as Mickey ordered drink after drink and got more and more comfortable, and by the time they were ready to leave the bar it was Mickey who said, “Your place or mine?”

 

* * *

 

 They ultimately decided to go to Ian’s place.

“Damn. Guess you didn’t follow the whole ‘south side for life’ mentality, huh?” Mickey said as he glanced around the apartment. It was nice, much nicer than Ian could’ve ever afforded. Mickey picked up one of the pink throw pillows off the couch and threw it at Ian. “Guess you really are gay, huh?”

Ian caught the pillow and tossed it back on the couch. “Yes, I really am gay. But this place isn’t technically mine and I don’t have to pay a dime for it. Long story.”

“You always were full of long stories, that’s one thing I remember.” Mickey sat down on the floor with his back leaning against the couch and stretched his legs out on the white, ridiculously expensive looking area rug. “Actually, they were stories that could’ve been really fucking short but you threw in useless information and just dragged ‘em out and turned them into long stories.”

“Oh, whatever! I was the quiet one, you were the one always blabbering on.”

“No, you did it all the time, I swear. Told long, stupid stories that I wanted to rush you through but I knew you’d pout so I didn’t.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “You want water?”

“You got beer? The walk over here kinda sobered me up.”

“I think you needed it.”

“I think you can shut the hell up and give me a beer.”

Ian grabbed a beer and joined Mickey on the floor. Handing it to him, Ian asked, “You remember that time we snuck into the Sox game and tried to hide out in there all night?”

Mickey smiled. “Course I remember, we were lucky as fuck that the nicest security prick in the world found us.”

“Yeah, what’d he say? ‘The magic of baseball really captures kids’ hearts’ or some shit like that.”

“Yeah, delusional old fuck, but thank God.”

“’Member how much we talked about what we’d do if we got away with it? We had it all planned out. Just spending the whole night running around the field, the whole place to ourselves, and camping out in the dugouts.”

“Like the ultimate Bat Cave.”

“The idea of that was so cool though, right? Imagining running around the bases of The Cell. Having it all to ourselves. To a ten year old that is like, the dream.”

“Still sounds like the dream to me.”

The words tumbled out of Mickey’s mouth so casually but they both knew they had to fight through steal walls to get there. Mickey’s nonchalance was a well put-on façade that would’ve fooled anyone else, anyone else, but not Ian. Mickey didn’t talk about feelings anymore. After years of bottling them up, would they explode when there were too many to contain? When the pressure built up too high? Or did it simply get easier, as most things do, with practice? Perhaps it had been hard for Mickey to hide his feelings at first, but now he was an old pro and lies could slide off his tongue with ease.

Ian moved closer to Mickey and let their forearms touch. Such a calculated move. Back then they would touch and hug and hit and play without a second thought. Sitting tightly together with legs touching and arms practically entangled was the norm. Now every move Ian made was cautious, premeditated, the consequences weighed beforehand.

Mickey let Ian put his arm against his, let their hands touch back to back, might’ve moved his leg so that his knee rested gently against Ian’s. They spent hours like that, sprawled out on the floor telling old stories, playfully arguing when one remembered something differently, laughing hysterically at most of the recollections. The positions of their bodies slowly changed until Mickey ended up with his head in Ian’s lap as Ian mindlessly stroked his hair.

“I can’t believe Mr. Dockett actually shit his pants.”

“That,” Mickey said, holding a finger in the air, “will go down as one of the most genius moments of my life.”

“You’ve said that bout nineteen other things tonight, too, Mick.”

“Yeah, well, I was a brilliant, conniving child. What can I say?”

Ian laughed. “Something tells me you’re a pretty conniving adult, too.”

Mickey sat up and reclaimed his initial position, back leaning against the couch. “I have my moments.”

Ian smiled and reached his hand out to stroke Mickey’s face. Mickey eyed Ian’s hand, looking at it hesitantly, not sure if he should pull away or lean into it. He surprised them both when he brought his face close to Ian’s, lips colliding gently like a slow motion car crash. Mickey cradled the back of Ian’s head in his hand, slipping his tongue between Ian’s lips. Ian palmed Mickey’s hardening cock through his jeans.

“Ya know,” Ian said into Mickey’s mouth. “I do have a bed.”

 

They both took off their clothes quickly as they entered the bedroom. Mickey sat on the bed eagerly, waiting for Ian to finish undressing. Ian straddled Mickey, kissing him with more passion than he knew he had. He pushed Mickey onto his back and moved to suck his neck, Mickey making a small satisfied noise.

Ian quickly reached over to grab the lube and before Mickey knew it Ian’s slick finger was inside him. Mickey bucked his hips and Ian went back to kissing his neck as he moved his finger around Mickey’s hole. Another slick finger burned it’s way into Mickey and he let out a small gasp.

“Fuck, Mick.” Ian moaned into Mickey’s neck. Mickey moved his hips again and grabbed Ian’s ass firmly with one hand, the holding tightly onto Ian’s bicep.

After a bit of stretching Ian added a third finger and the white hot pain was one of the best things Mickey had ever felt.

“Fuck, Gallagher, get in me.”

Ian reached for the nightstand again and grabbed a condom, rolling it onto his already leaking cock. He repositioned himself between Mickey’s thighs and slowly pushed into him. Mickey exhaled noisily and pulled Ian closer to him, his nails digging into Ian’s back as Ian pulled back and thrust in again, deeper this time. After a few more slow movements they fell into a quicker rhythm and it was clear neither of them were going to last long.

“Jesus Christ, Mick.” The words were breathy, almost whispered as Ian began to thrust harder and harder. Mickey grinded his teeth together and buried his face in Ian’s neck attempting to draw this out as long as possible.

Ian grabbed Mickey’s right thigh and moved it up a bit higher, changing the position enough to send chills down Mickey’s spine.

“God, fuck, yes. Right there. Holy fuck.”

Mickey’s satisfaction brought Ian closer to the edge, his words making Ian’s cock throb. “You’re so fucking amazing, Mick. So fucking perfect.” Ian could not believe this was happening. He could not believe that after twelve years of waiting and wanting and wishing, he was actually here.

Ian grabbed ahold of Mickey’s cock and stroked it with the rhythm of his thrusts. One of Mickey’s hands pulled at the bottom of Ian’s hair while the other squeezed the skin on Ian’s back. Mickey’s breathing became heavier and Ian watched Mickey’s face as he reached the edge.

He groaned as he came, eyes closed, nails leaving bruises on Ian’s back, and Ian was sure he had never seen anything quite so beautiful in his entire life. The sounds of Mickey’s orgasm was enough to get Ian there as well, and he thrust a few more times before his whole body clenched and he was shouting obscenities into the crook of Mickey’s neck.

They stayed in that position as they caught their breath, feeling the sweat and stickiness gluing them together. Ian kissed Mickey’s shoulder before rolling off him onto his back. His legs felt like jelly and his heart was still racing. He smiled at Mickey and held up his hand for a high five.

Mickey looked at Ian’s hand incredulously and Ian raised his eyebrows expectantly, waving his hand a little to egg Mickey on.

“You’re such a fucking dork,” Mickey said with a smile as he touched his own palm to Ian’s.

Ian laughed.

“The fuck is that?” Mickey asked and Ian followed his eyes toward the wall across from them. A gigantic painting of what appeared to be the Three Stooges hung there, gawking at them.

“What, you never wanted a lifesize portrait of Larry, Curly, and Moe hanging in your bedroom watching you fuck?” Ian teased.

Mickey chuckled. “Shit, you know what that reminds me of?”

Ian nodded knowingly. “Monty.”

Mickey’s head snapped in Ian’s direction, shocked that their minds still worked so similarly.

Monty had one small, old TV in his diner and it played The Three Stooges on what seemed like a constant loop. The boys had spent countless hours sitting sleepily in their booth watching the show, listening to Monty’s booming laugh.

“Fuckin’ Monty, man.” Mickey put one hand behind his head and let the other lie on his belly, his elbow grazing Ian’s. “It’s pretty fuckin’ hilarious that he was one of the biggest fag haters on the south side. Shit’s ironic.”

“You don’t know that,” Ian replied, almost coldly. The mood turned quickly from satisfied passion to an uneasy anger.

“Everybody knows that. No point in denying it.”

“Just because you heard it doesn’t make it true. You don’t know the whole story, you just know what other people said.”

“Jesus Christ-“

“He cared about us, Mick. He protected you from your abusive prick of a father. How can you say that? He cared about you.”

“Yeah, he covered for us a few times. And if he had known that we were a couple of fags, he probably would’ve sicked my dad on us himself. Old Monty’s prolly rollin’ over in his fucking grave as we speak.”

Ian moved his arm slightly so that it wasn’t touching Mickey’s. “Ain’t dead.” He moved his arm back.

“No shit? That old fucker’s still kickin’? Well maybe you can go ask him yourself, then. But you won’t. ‘Cause you know I’m right and you don’t want to ruin this little fairytale you’ve built up in your head. Two little homos and their fairy godfather.”

Ian bit the inside of his cheek. He tasted blood and sucked on the wound like he was thirsting for it. He’d heard the same shit Mickey had heard about Monty. That he beat one of his employees almost to death when he found out he was gay. Ian had always chalked it up to a rumor and it pissed him off that Mickey didn’t do the same.

Instead of fighting it further, Ian chose to move on. “Can we please not talk about this? It’s been a long time and I can think of a million other things I’d rather be doing than arguing about potentially homophobic assholes.”

“Good. That mean you’re not gonna ask about my dad, then?”

Ian was stunned that Mickey had even brought him up. “Nah, total mood killer. Unless you want to talk about him.”

“Have I ever wanted to talk about him?” Mickey leaned over the side of the bed, searching for something in his pile of clothes, and came back up with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Shit, we can’t smoke in here.”

“You fuckin’ kidding me?” Mickey asked as he put the cigarette in his mouth and moved to light it.

“Wait. Come on.” Ian hopped out of bed and got dressed before gathering up all the blankets and walking out of the bedroom. Mickey put on his own clothes and followed, watching confusedly as Ian slid open the patio door and sprawled the blankets out on the floor of the balcony. A light breeze cut through the warm summer air. Mickey stood in the doorway for a moment, unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He let his eyes admire the view of the city from here. It had to be at least two in the morning but the city was still lit up like a Christmas tree. It looked like the Chicago that he normally saw from a distance. But in New York he was right in the center of it.

Mickey sat down next to Ian on the makeshift bed, their backs against the cool glass doors. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag, exhaling slowly through his nose.

“So I guess I should probably hear that long story about whose apartment this is.”

Ian smiled at the memory of their conversation from earlier. “Let me know if I’m dragging it out.”

“Not a problem.”

Ian took a breath, readying himself to tell his woeful tale. “About two years ago I was diagnosed as bipolar. Just like my mom. Remember how she was? Sometimes she couldn’t get out of bed, sometimes she was the Energizer bunny?” Mickey nodded, recalling their more somber playdates in the Bat Cave when Ian had showed up late because he had been trying to get his mom out of bed. “Turns out she passed that on to me. It was… rough. It took a long time for me to get it under control. I went through a couple episodes before I got help. Tried a thousand different med combinations before finding one that actually worked decently. After all that I just needed a break, or, I don’t know- I needed something. Some kind of change. I thought about moving. That’s when Lip suggested a temporary move. Because God forbid I leave the south side forever, right? Surprised they let me out of their sight for this long. Anyways, Lip has this friend, Darcy. She goes to school here. Her parents are rich and bought her this place and she goes home to Chicago every summer, and her apartment just sits here untouched. Lip talked her into letting me stay here while she’s gone.”

Mickey took the last drag of his cigarette and smothered the embers into the cement floor. “So after the summer you go back to Canaryville?”

“Yep.” Ian didn’t try to hide the resentment in his voice.

“Then what?”

“No idea.” Ian was twenty-four years old and he had never been less sure of where his life was going. He had fucked up his chances with the army, he had no desire to go to school, and working at the Kash n’ Grab for the rest of his life didn’t seem like the most thrilling prospect.

Mickey lit another cigarette. He took a long drag, filling his lungs, then held the cigarette with his right hand and grabbed Ian’s hand with his left. They sat in silence for who-knows-how-long, holding hands, staring at the city, feeling small. Ian always thought about that; how small he really was in the universe. He used to think about it constantly, when they were struggling to get his meds right and he wanted to give up. He thought about how small he was, and how if he were to disappear it really wouldn’t matter much at all, not to the universe. He was a speck, and maybe the universe would be glad to be rid of him.

Now, though, he looked at things differently. He still felt miniscule, but maybe that was a good thing. He meant nothing to the universe so he had no obligation to it. He could do whatever he wanted and the world would go on. Which meant he didn’t have to worry about anything but himself, about what made him happy. And right now, all he had to think about was that he was holding Mickey’s hand, and the universe didn’t give a shit, and that was really great.

After a long while Ian started to doze off, and just as his eyelids were growing too heavy for the struggle he felt Mickey drop his hand. Ian looked over at Mickey, and Mickey didn’t look back.

“I should go,” Mickey said suddenly, solemnly, not making any effort to get up. He was looking off into the distance. Maybe at the buildings or the barely-there stars or maybe at nothing, just imaging baseball fields and trying to remember what it was like to not feel weighed down by the prospect of living.

Ian’s instinct was to jump up, get angry, panic; he thought better of it. “What are you talking about?” he asked as calmly as he could which really wasn’t all that calm at all. Because he knew it wasn’t a gotta-work-early-but-I’ll-call-you-tomorrow kind of ‘I should go’; it was a this-is-over kind of ‘I should go.’ And as much as Ian knew he shouldn’t overreact, the idea of never seeing Mickey again scared him more than he could fathom.

Although he could feel Ian’s eyes boring into him, Mickey continued to gaze outward at the horizon. “I think it’s time for me to go. It has to be.”

“It has to be? Jesus, cryptic much? What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means exactly what it sounds like. I don’t remember you being this stupid, Gallagher.”

“Stop calling me that!” and all self-restraint went out the window. Ian could feel the anger spreading through his body. He hated it. It wasn’t the kind of anger that made you want to yell at someone and slam a door. This was so much worse. It was the kind that left you hurting, aching so badly, every inch of your body screaming in a pain that can’t be soothed. Wanting to rip your own skin off but knowing even that wouldn’t lessen the anger, wouldn’t relieve the pain.

“’s your fuckin’ name.”

“You know what I mean!” Mickey knew what he meant. “My name is Ian! You never used to call me ‘Gallagher.’ Why start now?”

“Ian is a kid that I knew a long fucking time ago, okay? You are not him. Stop acting like nothing has changed. Like a million years haven’t passed. You’re being childish.”

“ _I’m_ being childish? You can’t say my name and _I’m_ the one being childish. You’re running away, and yet _I’m_ being childish?”

“Running away? Running from what? Tonight was fun, yeah, but that’s all it was. Stop actin’ like I owe you somethin’.”

Ian was furious. It was like a switch had flipped in Mickey. One second they were perfect and the next they were done. It was as if Mickey had given himself a strict time limit. Once the clock struck early-as-fuck a.m. he had to go back to being a pent up asshole. “Fun? Fuck you! It wasn’t just fun, it wasn’t just sex, it was- it was-“

“What?”

“I don’t know. It was just more. So much more than that. Don’t even act like it wasn’t. Seriously what the fuck, Mickey?”

“Whatever tonight was, it was just one night. And now it’s over. Grow up and move on.”

Mickey was conceding to the fact that it had meant more to him, too, and that was even worse than him denying it. Denying it would have meant he was scared. Admitting it and still being ready to walk away was like stabbing a searing hot knife into Ian’s chest and twisting it. He had never felt like this before. Mickey was introducing Ian to a whole new array of emotions he didn’t know existed.

“Why are you doing this?” he forced his voice into an easiness and he could tell that Mickey’s body responded to it. His shoulder’s relaxed and he sighed before answering.

“Look, you don’t need to be gettin’ caught up in all my shit, alright?”

“What if I wanna get caught up in all your shit?”

“Why?” Mickey laughed. “What, because we used to play together when we were kids? You think that means somethin’? We haven’t seen each other in over ten years and you think, what, we can just pretend all that time in between never happened? We can go from being twelve to twenty-five without a hitch and ride off into the fucking sunset? You take up hard drugs since we last met?”

“Just because shit happened in between doesn’t mean we don’t mean anything to each other anymore.”

“Actually, it does. Like I said, it was a lifetime ago. Might as well’ve never happened.”

“You don’t mean that. I know you don’t. Honestly tell me that you haven’t thought about me at all since you left.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter. I don’t know you anymore. I don’t know you and you don’t know me and anything we thought about each other was just fucking ideas. Doesn’t mean shit.”

Ian's voice grew louder as he grew angrier. “Or maybe our ideas were right. Or maybe reality is even better than our ideas. Why the hell shouldn’t we at least try-“

“Look, man,” Mickey said as he stood up, “it’s like I said; we don’t owe each other nothin’. It’s been good reminiscing and shit but that’s all we are to each other. The past.”

Mickey looked like he was going to say something, like a ‘see ya around’ was stuck in his throat but he didn’t want to throw that lie out there. If he had it his way they wouldn’t be seeing each other again.

Ian felt like he should do something, grab onto Mickey and never let him go, break his fucking jaw, just do something, but it was as if a boulder had been dropped on top of him, cementing him to his place on the ground. He just craned his neck and watched as Mickey left.

Ian spent thirty seconds trying to breathe around the boulder on his chest and finally forced himself up, forced himself to follow, to chase after Mickey. He took the elevator down and sprinted out the doors of his building, relieved to see that Mickey was still in sight.

“Wait! Mickey!” Mickey continued down the sidewalk ignoring Ian’s calls. Finally, Ian grabbed him harshly by the arm.

“We got a fuckin’ problem, man?”

“You can’t just walk away. After leaving with no explanation, leaving me wondering for years what the fuck happened to you, I can’t just let you walk away because you’re scared of the idea of me.”

“Oh, I’m scared of the idea of you?”

“Yeah. Because I’m someone who knew you before. Before the tattoos and the fuck everyone attitude and the asshole façade. And I’d be willing to bet I still know you.”

“Oh yeah tough guy? Why don’t you go ahead and tell me what you think you know about me? If you’re right, I’ll come back to your place and we can cuddle or whatever bullshit you wanna do. If you’re wrong, I get to walk this way, and you’re gonna walk that way, and we’re never gonna speak to each other again, kay?”

Ian raised his eyebrows in acceptance of the challenge. The disgust on Mickey’s face made Ian’s blood boil and he made a split second decision that he would probably regret for the rest of his life. “You’re gay. But closeted. So deep in the closet you won’t even admit it to yourself. Probably only had sex with men a handful of times, in dark alleys where you can’t see their faces and never learn their names. You mostly just fuck whores who didn’t mean shit to you. You still live with your dad and he still kicks the shit out of you, although they’re not so much beatings now as full on brawls because you actually fight back. Your mom finally got the guts to leave your piece of shit dad but you were too much of a pussy to stand up to him too so you stayed. You don’t talk to your sister anymore because you’re ashamed of what a fucking pussy you are. Or maybe she doesn’t talk to you because you turned out to be an abusive asshole just like your dad.”

“You done yet?” Mickey asked calmly.

“No, I’m not. I bet you’ve got at least two or three kids running around out there somewhere that you refuse to acknowledge as yours, because nothing says ‘I’m a straight man’ like knocking a girl up and becoming a deadbeat dad. You only make money off scamming people because you’re too fucking lazy to get a real job. And you think about me all the time but you would never admit it. Because you’re a coward.”

“Now?”

Ian gave a curt nod and Mickey promptly slugged him in the jaw.

“Fuck you, Gallagher. You don’t know anything about me.”

And Ian stood there, holding his throbbing jaw, watching as the most important person in his life walked away. Again.

 

* * *

 

Days passed and Ian would be lying if he said he hadn’t been expecting Mickey to show up at his door. But Mickey never came. Ian looked for him on the subway every day but the sad boy with the bright eyes was never there.

After a month, Ian stopped expecting it. He knew he had seen the last of Mickey Milkovich. And it was his own fault. He had let Mickey walk away, provoked him to, even. Self-sabotage was beginning to become a pattern for Ian.

 

About six months after Mickey had left the first time, Lip had had enough of hearing Ian talk about him. “His whole family’s gone, Ian. People move. I don’t think they’re coming back. It’s time to get over it. You’ll have better friends, trust me.” Seeing the sad look on his younger brother’s face grow even more somber, Lip sat down next to him and put an arm around his shoulder. “Hey, you still got me. Come on, I’m way better than any Milkovich. I’m _Lip._ ” Ian offered him a small smile and never mentioned Mickey’s name again, although he thought about him as much as ever.

 

Now, over ten years later, Ian found himself on the phone with his brother telling him every detail of his infatuation with Mickey Milkovich until he was practically gasping for air.

“Holy shit, dude. I had no idea you had it this bad. I thought my little pep talk back then actually worked. Way to totally knock my ego down a couple pegs.”

“I’m sure your ego will be just fine. Mine, however, is in a hole somewhere dying a painful death.”

“So you got rejected. Plenty o’ fish in the sea.”

“It’s not like that, Lip.”

Lip sighed, understanding. “I know.”

“So what the fuck do I do?”

Ian heard Lip sigh again, like he was about to deliver news that Ian didn’t want to hear. “I don’t know. I mean, if you want me to try and track him down I could probably manage, but-“

“But?” Ian asked, knowing he’d regret it.

“But I really think you should let this go, Ian. The last thing you need is damaged goods. Especially damaged goods that are gonna treat you like shit. After all you’ve been through, you’re finally in a semi-good place in your life. I don’t think you should do anything to jeopardize that.”

Ian pursed his lips and looked out the window, out to the balcony where he and Mickey had laid weeks ago. He could still feel Mickey’s hand in his. Except he couldn’t, really, not at all, and that was the problem, wasn’t it?

“Yeah. Okay. Yeah.” Maybe Lip was right, and maybe he wasn’t, but Ian didn’t have the energy to go looking for someone who had no desire to be found.


	3. Forever

Months passed and before Ian knew it he was heading back to Chicago. He slept in the same bed he had slept in for over twenty years. Every morning the first thing he did was look out his window, like he was expecting to see Mickey in the window across from him, like the last twelve years had been a dream.

Ian loved the Gallagher house growing up, but now it felt stuffy. He felt claustrophobic and he knew it had nothing to do with the tiny size of his room. It didn’t help that his siblings were crowding him, constantly fussing over how he was doing and if he had taken his meds and if he had gotten enough sleep.

The whole house- hell, the whole city- reminded Ian of the demons he had been faced with not so long ago. His illness and his weakness and his fear. He was itching to escape it all again. New York had been like a breath of fresh air, and being shoved back into Chicago made Ian feel suffocated.

He fought through each day, not that he could complain too much. He got to bond with Liam and Carl and Debbie who he’d missed dearly and he was lucky enough to get his job back at the Kash and Grab where Linda paid him well. Working there again felt like taking two giant steps back but they had to pay the bills and he needed to make up for the money his family had missed out on while he was in New York.

He took a few classes at Malcolm X, mostly for Fi, because he had no idea what he was doing with his life. He skipped class on more than a few occasions to go to the Bat Cave, just lying on the bench for hours when his family thought he was at school. The only time he could really be alone.

 

* * *

 

 By the time next summer rolled around Ian was practically crawling out of his skin. He had asked Lip a thousand times if Darcy was going to let him stay there again, _are you sure, Lip, are you positive she’s coming home for the summer, are you sure she’s cool with it again?_ And Lip assured him, annoyed, each time that Ian would be able to bum around in her apartment for another summer.

 

As soon as Ian got to New York he felt significantly happier and sadder all at the same time. The freedom was intoxicating, making his limbs jittery with excitement. But the weight of last summer was ever present. Ian had no idea if Mickey was even in New York anymore, but he still felt like he might see him on the subway or just around the corner or in the bar they had gone to that night. The hope, the anticipation, the thought that he just might catch a glimpse of Mickey Milkovich dragged behind Ian like cement blocks tied to each ankle. He could never shake the feeling no matter how hard he tried.

 

* * *

 

 Ian spent the whole summer waiting to run into Mickey, and just a week before his time in the city was up once again, he saw him.

 

Mickey was standing on the subway. A feeling of déjà vu swept over Ian as he stood at the other end of the car in shock. As if Mickey could feel Ian’s eyes on him, he turned his head and looked straight at Ian. Ian remained where he was, staring, mouth slightly agape. He wasn’t sure how long they stood there staring at each other before the subway stopped and he watched Mickey step off. Mickey stepped off, and waited. He stood on the platform unmoving, waiting for Ian to join him.

Ian stumbled quickly onto the platform and stood mesmerized in front of Mickey. He thought of how lucky they’d been when they got caught at the Sox game. He thought of how lucky he was now.

“Mick-“ Ian finally said, but Mickey cut him off.

“Not here.” Mickey grabbed Ian’s arm and led him outside. Ian realized that they had gotten off at his stop and were now headed to his (well, Darcy’s) apartment. Mickey walked silently and stoically next to him and Ian was still too dumbfounded to even attempt to make conversation anyway. When they arrived outside of Ian’s building, Mickey looked at him expectantly.

“You’re still staying here, right?”

Ian nodded and led the way inside and to Darcy’s unit.

Once inside, Mickey paced for a few moments and Ian stood just inside the door, waiting for Mickey to make the first move.

Finally, Mickey spoke up. “Say what you wanna say, then I’m gonna say what I gotta say, alright?”

Ian took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean any of the shit I said to you. I was just so pissed and just, just fucking devastated that after all this time thinking that you were wondering about me too it turned out you didn’t want to see me. I don’t think any of those things I said are true. I have an idea of who you are now, and I might be right and might be completely ass backwards wrong but I don’t care if I’m wrong because I want to learn those things. I want to learn everything about you, I want to get to know you again. You were more to me than just a friend. And I don’t mean, like, a boyfriend, I mean, like… fuck I- I can’t explain it. But you meant so much to me when we were kids and twelve years hasn’t changed that. So whatever baggage you bring to the table, I don’t fucking care. I wasn’t too scared of your dad to be your friend back then and I’m not too scared of him now. I’m not scared of anything except the thought of not being with you. As stupidly cheesy as it sounds, the idea of losing you again is the worst possible thing I could think of. Anything you’re going through, I want to go through with you. Because I feel like I’ve known you forever. Even if we were just kids.”

There was silence

“Okay, I’m done now, but before you say anything just please tell me-“

“I thought about you.” Mickey said it quietly, then bit his lip.

“You thought about me.”

Mickey bit his lip harder then released it to speak. “My dad saw us.” He didn’t need to say the word, _kiss,_ because they both knew. They both remembered what had happened the last time they’d seen each other. They were in a tent made out of sheets in the Milkovich backyard when Ian had leaned in to kiss Mickey, and Mickey had let him. Ian remembered how Mickey had turned his head away after to hide his blush, then the way the shoved Ian lightly on the shoulder and laughed.

Their first kiss should have been in the dugout, it would have been much more fitting, but of course their lives could never make that much sense.

“He really did a number on me that night. Was scared some of the neighbors might’ve heard my fucking screams.” Mickey let out a laugh that was thick with tears. Ian’s stomach ached with guilt. He wished he had heard his screams. “Couldn’t even move after he got done. So he took me to stay with my uncle. First thing I heard when I woke up from being pistol whipped was him talkin’ on the phone with my mom tellin’ her we were all movin’ in with my uncle Tony.” Mickey remembered hearing his mom sobbing on the other end of the phone ‘where have you been, why are we leaving, why, why?’ “He told her it was ‘cause he stole a bunch of coke from a guy and he didn’t wanna get found. Which, turns out, wasn’t a lie, but-“ Mickey drifted off, shaking his head at the memory. “Soon as I was conscious you know what the fucker did? Turned on some fucking porn. Girl on girl. Called me a faggot and told me to never even think about kissing a guy again.”

“Mickey-“

“You stop me now and you might never hear this again so I suggest you shut the fuck up. Now I don’t think you need all the details but you know Terry’s fucked in the head so I’m sure you can imagine. All you need to know is that he made himself clear. What would happen to me if I showed any interest in guys. I might not live with him anymore but he’s not out of my life. Never will be as long as he’s alive, and I don’t know what to do about that. So I don’t need you to- fuck.” Mickey turned away from Ian and his eyes landed on the balcony. The memories of last summer gave him the push to keep talking. “That shouldn’t be something that you should have to worry about. You’ve got a good life goin’ for you, Gallagher. You don’t want my shit fucking it up, trust me.”

Ian remained quiet, not sure if he should speak yet. He picked at the skin on his thumb with his index finger and stared at the pink throw pillows on the couch. Eventually, Ian broke the silence.

“You thought about me.” His quiet voice still managed to sound thunderous in the deadly silent room.

 “Of course I fucking thought about you. But I knew the cost of looking for you.”

“You didn’t think it’d be worth it?”

“Ian-“ Mickey paused as Ian’s eyes shot up to meet his. It was the first time Mickey had addressed him as that in twelve years. Mickey sniffled and swallowed the lump in his throat. Ian’s heart swelled.

“Ian,” he said again, preparing himself for another speech that he hadn’t intended on ever making. “We lived with my Uncle Tony for two fucking years. Right there in the south side. So fucking close to you. Do you know what that-“ Mickey paused, took a breath, like letting out this much emotion was breaking him. Like expressing his feelings took every ounce of energy he had. He wiped a shaky hand over his face and continued. “You have no idea what that was like. Being so close to you and knowing I couldn’t see you. You got no idea what that did to me. But I was too fucking scared to try anything. I went to school and I went home. I didn’t talk to anyone outside my family. I didn’t step out of line once. Not once for two years. But by then, my dad’d backed off. Wasn’t so worried about the gay thing because I had made sure to show interest in girls as much as possible. So one day I skipped school and I went to see Monty. I told him everything and I asked him if he’d seen you. Thought maybe he could help us meet up in secret. But-“

“Mick-“

“Seriously, you gotta learn to stop interrupting. One wind, that’s all I got. I’ve never talked this much in my life so I’m not sure I’d know how to do it again. Listen to me. Monty called up my dad.”

Ian felt hot tears stream down his face. He stood on shaky legs and bit the inside of his mouth as Mickey recounted his nightmares.

“My dad took me home and put a gun to my head. And to this day I still can’t believe he didn’t pull the fucking trigger. Instead he just smacked me around and called his cousin Ralphie in New York. Asked if we could stay with him for a while. The day before we left my mom killed herself.” The news shocked Ian, and the nonchalant way Mickey said it made Ian feel sick. His stomach rolled and he dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands. “Can’t blame her, ya know? My dad was fucking crazy enough to move us all to fucking New York all because I tried to see you. How could she live with someone that fucked in the head?”

Mickey shook his head again and let out a small laugh that turned into tears. He wiped them away with his sleeve and composed himself. “So me, my dad, and Mandy lived with Ralphie for a while til my dad figured out how to make a living out here. Eventually we go our own place, the shittiest one room apartment I’ve ever seen, and-“ Mickey ran his hands over his face again and pulled at his hair. “Jesus, fuck- none of the rest really matters, alright? I just needed you to understand. What matters is my dad would still kill me if he caught me with a guy. And he’s not my only issue, man. My life is shit. I have nothing going for me. I have nothing to offer you.”

“I don’t care-“

“Ian. I give a shit about you. So if you care about me at all, you’ll let me leave. I gave you what you wanted: a complete explanation of everything. Now give me what I want. Don’t say anything, and let me go.”

 

 Because Ian was a complete idiot, he did.

 

* * *

 

 Two days later, Ian heard a knock on his door and his stomach dropped. He fully expected Mickey to be at the door and yet was still completely amazed when he was right.

Mickey stood in the hallway with his hands in his pockets. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Ian didn’t say a word, and for that Mickey was grateful. Ian let Mickey inside and then turned to face him, asking what he needed him to do, but already knowing. He had known Mickey for a lifetime.

Mickey’s face was emotionless as he moved towards Ian. He took the fabric of Ian’s t-shirt in his hands and balled them into fists, grabbing at the material like it was his only lifeline. Ian put his hand on Mickey’s back and pulled him in closer, and the levee broke. Mickey sobbed into Ian’s shoulder and Ian held on for dear life. This was what they were good at: not talking. Not needing to talk. They used to be good at not needing to talk and ever since they had run into each other a year ago all they had needed to do was talk. But they didn’t need to talk anymore. Not needing to talk was good.

 

* * *

 

 Mickey woke up hours later with swollen eyes and a raw throat. He was in Ian’s bed, with Ian laying just beside him. He never wanted to end up here. Never thought this would happen again.

He quietly got out of bed, noting the way the mattress didn’t make a sound unlike the creaking ones he was used to, and walked out onto the balcony. The sky was dark but the city was as bright as ever. Mickey grabbed onto the railing and leaned slightly over the balcony, considered leaning farther and letting go.

He wouldn’t do it.

If he did, though, he hoped he wouldn’t land on anyone. How often did that happen? It had to happen sometimes, right? That would be just his luck; his suicide would end in a homicide, too.

Then again, wouldn’t anyone committing suicide think that would be ‘just their luck?’ If their lives were shitty enough to jump they had probably had some bad luck in the past, too, and if everyone thought that it would be just their luck to land on another person then that took it all back to the statistics.

Mickey squeezed his eyes shut and willed his brain to turn off, but no such luck. Of course.

He could jump and Ian could go on with his life. Closure. For both of them.

Mickey leaned a bit further over the edge and the idea of falling made him dizzy. Thoughts of plastic cup phones and dugouts swam through his head.

Fears of Ian being beaten to death by someone (Mickey’s dad, one of Mickey’s cracked out customers, Mickey himself) interceded.

Dreams of two starry-eyed kids running the bases of a dark, empty US Cellular Field pushed their way to the front.

Mickey leaned back to safety, hands still white-knuckling the railing. His life was a shit show from start to finish, filled with dark closets and shitty parents and drugs and broken bones and broken minds. It would never be anything more than that.

 And he would never stop hating himself for being selfish enough to bring Ian down with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr: backstreet-gurl.tumblr.com


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